


The Black Eye

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Black Eye, Fluff, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Most Certainly Crack, Pining, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Is On A Mission, Sherlock Is Probably OOC, Sibling Incest, Smut, Wrong Deductions, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-22 22:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21309337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: The great Consulting Detective is convinced Mycroft's black eye has been caused by a secret lover. He makes it his mission to find out who this man is and to show him nobody is allowed to hurt big brother.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 50
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).

### Prologue

It all began with Mycroft receiving a package on a Saturday afternoon; he had only come home from his office ten minutes earlier. The chores never ended and not even the weekend was sacrosanct. But when he had been finished with reading the latest MI5 report and emailed some orders to the respective people, he had headed home for some well-deserved rest.

It had nothing to do with the parcel, or the bored young man who was delivering it. The plain brown package contained a shirt in a brave new colour Mycroft had ordered, and the man, a red-haired mathematics student who loved his mother and had not done a criminal thing in his young life and was unlikely to ever do so, was pondering about a complicated algebra problem while he was waiting for Mycroft to open up. It was all completely harmless and normal and business as usual.

Mycroft would have only had to open the door and receive his package and hold up his new shirt after unpacking it in the privacy of his bedroom (of course he was alone in his house as he always was, clowns and dwarfs aside, but nobody had ever stepped into his bedroom so it was extra private). Perhaps he would have tried it on and admired himself in the mirror (which is unlikely though as he didn’t find himself all that pretty).

Unfortunately (or fortunately, who knows?) he had just stepped out of his shower cabin and been reaching for his towel when the doorbell rang.

He cursed and grabbed his robe, slipping into it while hurrying out of the room. It was the upstairs bathroom, attached to his bedroom, and he had to clatter down the stairs. And so it happened. The unfortunate (or fortunate…) combination of wet feet, slippery steps and an old-fashioned banister with a carved stud at the foot of the stairs led to the painful result of Mycroft slipping and hitting his face on said stud.

Taken by (the painful) surprise, he managed just so to not fall off the last step head first, holding onto the banister, stretching his shoulder quite painfully. But this pain was harmless compared to the one right under his right eye; he could literally feel the tender skin swell.

With a muffled sound the package was dropped at the door and the delivery man turned on his heels and left, unaware of the little accident that had happened on the other side of the door.

Feeling shaken and dizzy, Mycroft eventually got back onto his feet and padded to the door, where he collected his delivery, and then he returned to the bathroom on shaky legs, just to scream when he saw himself in the mirror.

_It will be a lot better on Monday_, he soothed himself.

Well, it wasn’t, in fact he had to go to work with a marvellous shiner, and so his life changed forever.

### An Incorrect Deduction

“Sherlock, Doctor Watson, please come in and take a seat. Thanks for coming on such short notice.” Mycroft gave his brother and his ex-flatmate a smile that he knew didn't look all that natural, waiting for them to sit down so he could tell them about the case, involving a suspicious ex-agent, a wolf and some lost folders.

But both men just gaped at him. Mycroft sighed. He had heard it all before. Everybody had stared at him and his colleagues had all asked what had happened and Anthea had looked as if she was about to pet him. _‘Just a little accident at home’_, he had replied, truthfully, and had assured them that he was absolutely fine. They had nodded, and Lady Smallwood, who was about to remarry again to his relief, had looked especially doubtful, but none of them had asked any more questions.

Sherlock wasn’t that shy though. “Who did that?”

“Sorry?” Why had he not seen that coming? Oh, yes, because everybody knew there was nobody in his life. Of course, it could have been some gangster on the street but his brother would hardly believe that he had allowed some no-good youngsters to beat him up. But after the pathetic performance he had pulled off in Sherrinford...

“Your eye, Mycroft,” John said, his eyes narrowed.

Mycroft shook his head. “Nobody did anything to me. I slipped and fell. Can we now focus on the case, please?”

“I know the damage inflicted by a fist when I see it!” thundered Sherlock.

“Yes, right.” Mycroft couldn’t help it. He looked at the doctor. “You’ve only recently had some experience with that.” He had only learned about it from Greg Lestrade right after Sherrinford but his blood started to boil again when he thought about it – John hitting and kicking away at his baby brother. Reluctantly, he had let it go unpunished. Because he had known Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted him to interfere. But Doc Watson should better not take to such measures again…

John paled to his satisfaction and glanced at him with pained eyes, and Sherlock looked as if he had punched _him_. “This is not our subject!” he defensively rumbled.

“Indeed. Our subject is this case...”

Sherlock huffed and John bit his lip and finally they listened to him, or at least they pretended to do so and kept more or less quiet besides the odd grumbling, and they were both pouting, which looked a lot more attractive on Sherlock than on the thin-lipped doctor, but when the detective ripped the folder out of his hand, he saw a glimmer of determination in his younger brother’s eyes that had certainly nothing to do with this case, and he had the strange feeling Sherlock was not willing to let the matter rest.

It was stupid. He had even fuelled Sherlock's suspicions with pointing out his friend’s violence instead of insisting on the true explanation. From what he knew, Sherlock and the doctor got along well with each other again. John had not moved back in with him as he had a child to worry about and the (rebuilt) flat was too small for all three of them anyway. But they solved cases together again whenever John found the time and they were still friends after all that had happened.

Nothing had really changed since Sherrinford. Sherlock had visited their sister a few times but soon given up on it again when she had one day refused to pick up the violin and sat with her back to the glass wall, ignoring him (and she had continued to waste away since then). His relationship with Sherlock was what it had been ever since Sherlock had hit puberty – estranged, distanced and almost not happening. That moment of weird closeness during _the final problem _when he had told Sherlock to kill him aside – it was all back to what passed for normal for them.

But… Sherlock had asked about the black eye. Had even thought someone had hurt him. Did he only care because it was an unsolved puzzle?

Or did he seriously care about him?

Mycroft had the strong feeling he would find out very soon.

*****

“It must have been Lestrade,” Sherlock mumbled darkly when they were padding over the pathway in front of Mycroft's house.

“What? Are you mad?” John shook his head with vehemence. “Greg would never hit anyone, let alone your brother. That's a ridiculous guess; you can't even call it a deduction.”

“But he knows him. They met at a few of my hospital beds… And I sent him to look after Mycroft after all this… mess.”

“And I never understood that in the first place. Why send a copper to console your brother? You should have gone to him yourself.”

“Thanks for your wise advice, Mr _'What goes around comes around'_,” Sherlock hissed. Of course he knew John was right. He should have taken care of his brother himself. He had seen how shaken he was. And it was no wonder he had felt troubled and devastated. All this time he had been thinking Eurus was safely contained, only to learn she was, in fact, ruling this prison, running around free, causing havoc, this all leading to her nasty, deadly game with the governor, the Garridebs, and Molly, cumulating in her _‘who is worth living and who can be shot’_ contest. It had been all terrifying and horrible and it was not surprising at all that Mycroft, who lived behind a desk in the safest building in London, had been out of his depth.

“You're the one to talk!” John shot back. “Going to this damn prison twice a week to play the violin with your monster of a sister. What were you thinking?”

Sherlock had thought he should make up for letting her be alone all her life. For forgetting her. For having ignored her even when she had still been living with the family as he'd had two people in his life he loved and admired. Victor and Mycroft. He still didn’t remember a lot about Victor; when he thought about him he saw games and laughter and friendship, blurry pictures of summer and snowballs. But when he thought of Mycroft, he felt care and devotion and… love. Obviously he had erased all memories of this time while forgetting about his best friend and his little sister. But in opposite to the ones of Eurus and Victor, his memories of Mycroft had come back in HD. He saw the chubby boy who taught him history and philosophy. He saw the young man who returned from uni, bringing Sherlock heaps of presents for making up for his absence, no matter how grumpy Sherlock had been reacting. He saw the government official who came to drug dens to bring him home. Strange… Even his memories of these much later times seemed to have disappeared. As if the estrangement from his brother had erased all the good moments from his mind. But now they were all back. And someone had hurt his big brother, and Sherlock wouldn’t have it.

“I stopped doing that very quickly,” he answered John's question now. “It made no sense.” He would have stopped visiting her even if she hadn't shown so clearly she didn’t want to see him anymore the last time. Perhaps she had realised that he had only come very reluctantly after the first two or three times. Perhaps she had set him free by pretending she didn’t like their meetings anymore. Who knew? He should have been ashamed maybe but she, frankly spoken, didn’t matter to him.

“Good that you realised that,” John said. “She never deserved your attention in the first place.”

Yeah. That's why he was probably not feeling ashamed for letting her down. She had done many really nasty things. She had never been sorry for them… She wouldn’t have known how.

“You're too forgiving,” John mumbled, and Sherlock knew he was not only talking about Eurus.

“Ancient history, John,” he soothed his friend. It hadn't been very nice to be beaten and kicked, and yes, Smith had almost killed him in the go. But he had taken the beating as he knew it was coming from a position of deep pain and guilt about John's own actions, not of hatred. He had followed Mary's plan, no matter how insane it might have been, and in the end John had saved him, and that was what counted. John had saved him so he had saved John and their friendship.

“Not for your brother,” John retorted, and back at the subject that really mattered now they were.

“I still think it was Les…”

“Ah stop it, Sherlock. No way. But if it makes you feel any better, ask him!”

“Oh, that I will do for sure. I'm going to the Yard right now.” He wouldn’t do that via phone. And Mycroft's boring case could wait. Sherlock had already drawn his conclusions and he knew he would solve it in no time.

“I'm coming with you. Wouldn’t want to miss that conversation,” John smirked and Sherlock nodded darkly.

If Lestrade had beaten his brother, Sherlock would beat _him_!

*****

“Oh, hello Sherlock. John.”

Sherlock realised, not for the first time, that Lestrade was a bit cold when he spoke to John these days. He had asked Sherlock if he wanted to press charges against his friend but Sherlock had vehemently denied that. He hoped that one day Lestrade would forgive John for giving him this royal hiding. But so far neither Mycroft nor Greg had done that and somehow this made him feel strangely fuzzy inside even though he didn’t resent John for it. But he was here for another reason!

“I don't have a case for you I'm afraid,” Greg said, smiling.

His shirt was crumpled as if he had slept in it and his trousers were on their way down. Had lost six pounds, hectic month, Sherlock deduced. Still hardly any cases for him! Had Geoff really taken to solving them himself? No wonder he was looking so exhausted…

That was not his problem now though as he already was on a case! The case of the lying, beaten brother! “We're not here for a case. Or, well, maybe we are.” Sherlock scrutinised the DI, who looked a bit puzzled. “What if there was a man with a black eye, and he refused to say who it was?”

And as if he shouldn’t have seen this coming, Greg automatically stared at John, who seemed to become even smaller under his suspicious look.

“Not John!” Sherlock snarled.

Greg shook his head. “Is this supposed to make any sense? Because it surely doesn’t to me.”

“So you know nothing about a man with a black eye?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes threateningly.

“No. I mean, yes, I see quite a lot of them. Corpses, having been beaten to death. Sometimes I’m watching drunk people getting brought to…”

Sherlock turned on his heel. “Come, John. It wasn't him.”

“I told you.”

Sherlock just grumbled something unflattering and stalked out of the Yard, and John hurried to keep up with him.

Greg looked at their backs, scratching his head. This man was a good man, no doubt about it. But sometimes he was just being weird…

### A Handsome Waiter

“Oh, good morning, little brother. Do sit down,” Mycroft added dryly when Sherlock let himself drop into the visitor's chair.

Sherlock threw the folder onto his desk. “Solved your case. Wrote it all down.”

“Well, that's greatly appreciated. You will receive a generous payment on your acc-…”

“Tell me now. John is not here.”

“I did notice that. Your friend is rather short but not invisible.” Unfortunately not…

Sherlock sighed. “Stop trying to make jokes, Mycroft. You’re not good at it.”

Mycroft opened the folder and looked at the printout Sherlock had added; a series of clever deductions that would lead straight to the miscreant. And the wolf. Just as Mycroft had figured out, too. “Apologies.”

Sherlock waved this away. “Since we're alone now – tell me who did that to you!”

“What – do you want to avenge me?” What an image… Sherlock beating a faceless man for having hurt him. Just that he could have only beaten a banister… And he hadn’t he just more or less confirmed Sherlock's accusations? Again?

The younger man glowered at him. “I knew it! Someone hit you and you're telling me who, right this instant!”

“What do you care, Sherlock?” Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “You never cared about me.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I…. That's not true. In Sherrinford…”

“Yes. You didn’t shoot me.” And then he had forgotten about him again. Had saved John and gone home with him. Had sent Greg Lestrade to attend to him as if he hardly mattered to him. Had repeatedly visited their murderous sister despite the fact that she had wanted him to die.

Mycroft felt tired all at once. It was nothing but a strange puzzle for Sherlock. What else could it be? “Nobody hit me, Sherlock. I told you what happened. It was nothing but a stupid accident.”

Sherlock shot up from his chair and pointed at him. “You're lying. And I'll find out who it was and then God rest his soul!”

With this remarkable statement he turned on his heels and hastened out of the room and Mycroft sat there, dumbfounded, until a small smile pulled at his lips. Sherlock cared. He really did… The smile died. Eventually Sherlock would figure out that there was nobody to punish but a piece of wood, and then he would forget about him again. And he would be left longing for Sherlock's attention. Longing for Sherlock… Blushing at these age-old misguided sentiments, he hurried to focus on his work.

*****

His brother didn't come back and he didn’t text him, either, for the rest of the day. Mycroft wondered why he had expected anything else. Probably Sherlock and his sidekick were already on the next case, a real case, not involving his boring big brother’s non-existent love life with an imaginary rowdy… He wondered why Sherlock had even jumped to this conclusion – Mycroft being the victim of domestic violence. It was a mystery to him. And if he really wanted to date anyone, it would certainly not be a mindless brute who liked to speak with his fists. It would have to be someone extremely smart and special, a musical man with sensitive fingers and nice eyes and… At this point he buried his face in his hands.

When he was finished with his chores for the day, he decided to have dinner in a nice little restaurant he hadn’t visited for way too long. It looked like a shabby tavern but the food and the wine were excellent. The owner called himself Henri and used to call him ‘Mr ‘olmes’ and generally spoke with a heavy French accent, but when Mycroft, speaking eight languages and twenty-four dialects fluently, had addressed him in his perfect French, the man had just grinned sheepishly and pretended to have to go to another table urgently. And he looked suspiciously Irish… But Mycroft didn't go there for the conversation after all; he liked to eat in silence and there was no annoying music and the other patrons kept their distance from him.

He knew he was a man whose appearance cried for keeping distance, even to those who didn’t know his position or his reputation as a cold fish, or a reptile, as Mrs Hudson had put it on that horrible day when John had hurt Sherlock so badly. He still cringed when he thought how he had wasted his time rummaging in his brother’s belongings while Sherlock had been lying in his hospital bed, injured and helpless after the vicious beating he had taken from John, waiting for his so-called best friend to come and save him from a murderer. He would never understand what he had been thinking… He did know it had something to do with one of blasted Mary Watson’s DVDs, however she had been able to get them to him after her death.

He would never forgive John for his violence and he would never understand Sherlock for forgiving everybody who was called Watson for doing the nastiest things to him… And he had never got it in time. He had not known Mary had been the one to shoot at Sherlock; he had got to know about this months later, after the debacle with Magnussen. Which was another thing that made his blood boil. Sherlock, killing for the Watsons, throwing everything away just to keep them safe. John was Sherlock's only real weakness. And Sherlock was _his_ weakness…

Sighing, he stepped out of the car that had stopped next to the restaurant. He thanked the driver and told him he could go home now. He would take a cab to his house after dinner.

He slowly approached the plain building and then he winced when he saw a movement that looked weird out of the corner of his eye. He glanced to the side but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just people heading home in the nasty wind, bags in their hands, or staring at their phones. Probably it had been nothing. Or it had been Sherlock…

Monsieur Henri was at the door as soon as he entered, beaming at him with his exceptionally white teeth. “Monsieur ‘olmes, what a joy! Oh, but your eye! Painful! And what a ghastly English weather you are bringing with you!”

Mycroft smiled thinly. “Good evening. Don’t worry about my eye. Yes, I’m sure the weather in France is a lot nicer. Do you have a small table for me by any chance?”

“But of course! It is a bit crowded though as there is a celebration, a birthday. But I have a nice table for you in a quieter corner and my nephew, Pádraig, I mean Pierre, will take care of every one of your needs!”

Mycroft suppressed a smirk about the name and wondered about the choice of words. He was in a restaurant, not a brothel after all. He blushed at the thought. He never thought about such things. Sex was… not done in his life. Not anymore. Not for ages. Never again.

He leaned his umbrella against the wall and slipped out of his coat, which was hung up by the busy Henri at once. Mycroft refused to put his umbrella in the stand but took it with him.

The table to which he was guided was indeed small, and as far away as possible from the noisy revellers, which was a relief. He took the menu and decided to order the tasty Ratatouille with a Merlot.

“Good evening. I’m Pierre,” he heard when he was about to secure his umbrella so nobody would stumble over it.

He looked up to see a tall, dark-haired man with eyes like green grass. He was about twenty-five and beautiful like the Irish landscape. Mycroft noticed this without the hint of desire. He had long ceased to indulge in desire as he knew he would never get what he longed for so badly, and it was nothing this particularly handsome man had to offer, even if he hadn’t been totally straight as he could also see at once.

“Good evening. Nice to meet you, Pádraig, son of Ireland,” he said, deadpan.

The waiter sighed. “Not buying the French stuff, huh?”

Mycroft smiled. “Not really, no. But we won’t tell your uncle, if this is what he indeed is.”

“He is,” Pádraig said. “My mum’s brother. And he always slips with my name… Anyway, what can I bring you?”

Mycroft ordered and straightened his tie, and then he looked out of the window. He was placed a few metres away from it and the streets were rather dark, but he saw a man standing at the corner on the other side of the street, staring right into his eyes and turning to leave at once.

Mycroft shook his head. Unbelievable… Little brother was indeed spying on him. Thinking he was about to meet a lover here? And he had watched him talking to Pádraig. But Sherlock couldn’t think he was dating a violent waiter, no matter how pretty he was, could he? He surely thought Mycroft was a snob, and of course he was, and hadn’t he made fun of the goldfish often enough? But then… sex didn’t need a big brain… He blushed at the thought.

Sherlock didn’t appear in his field of vision again but Mycroft could feel he was there, watching. In the cold… Mycroft would have loved to ask him in. He could text him. But Sherlock was on a mission. He had a case to solve. An unsolvable case… But until he figured that out, Mycroft wouldn’t spoil his fun… And damn… It _was _flattering… But of course it was just brotherly concern, nothing… romantic, he gavelled himself the next moment. Considering their rather unpleasant relationship, brotherly concern was already an improvement though, no matter that he wished it could be more… He sighed. What a hopeless case he was…

When Pádraig came back two minutes later, bringing his wine, he looked rather grumpy, and when he had served it, he rubbed his hand.

“Anything wrong?” Mycroft asked him, wondering why. He usually didn’t ask the goldfish about their well-being.

“Oh, it’s nothing. My fingers hurt a bit. Typed too much on my laptop I guess. I’m writing a novel.”

Oh, a wannabe-author above all. But Mycroft knew the problem and it was easy to cure. “I can show you something to make this better,” he said. “Sit down for a moment.”

“Great!” The young man took the chair opposite of him and offered him his hand.

Mycroft put his middle- and forefinger between the waiter’s ones and gently pressed them apart. “Do this. Open and close your fist and stretch your fingers apart as far as you can.” He mimicked the action and Pádraig nodded enthusiastically.

“That’s awesome!”

“Well, it works. Just do it from time to time, even if they don’t hurt.”

Pádraig beamed at him and got up, patting Mycroft's forearm. “I owe you, Mr Holmes!”

Mycroft smiled. “Just some little advice from someone who types a lot.”

“It already helps! And now I’ll get your meal!” With this Pádraig disappeared, looking decidedly happier than before, and Mycroft sipped at his wine.

He could almost feel the presence out there in the dark turning the scene over in its suspicious mind…

*****

“Oh, fuck, man, you’ve startled me!” The young man, looking a bit tousled and tired, reached up to his heart.

Sherlock nodded. “Taking the rubbish out?”

“Um, yeah. Restaurant’s closed now. You… No.” The dark-haired man laughed nervously. “You’re not looking as if you wanted to cadge something to eat.”

Sherlock stared at him in outrage. “What, from the bins? Are you mad? Boy, leave the deductions to people who can do them, okay?”

“Ded-… What?”

“Never mind. So. What will you do afterwards?”

“Um… Oh… Well… You’re pretty good-looking and all but… I don’t do such things.” He stepped back, the full bin liner still in his hand, when Sherlock moved closer.

“Do what?”

“Uh… You know… Doing stuff in dark alleys and shit...”

“I see!” Sherlock pointed at him. “You prefer going to a posh house, right, sucking the man off on the couch!”

“Uh… What?!”

“And when he doesn’t pay you enough, you beat him!” He should have known it was the only explanation – Mycroft had paid someone to have sex with him! Not because he was so unattractive that he had to pay for it, no, of course not. But in this case he wouldn’t have to engage with the man in any other way, waste his time with him… But he had chosen the wrong one obviously. Well, now Mr Pretty Face would find out that he had also picked the wrong guy to mess with as he had a brother who would hit back in his favour!

The slim stud shook his head in disgust. “What do you think I am – a hooker? I work here in case you missed it, Mister. I’m a waiter, and a student and I don’t do escort! And beat anyone? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sherlock conceded he might have jumped to incorrect conclusions. The man’s embarrassment seemed to be real.

And he wasn’t that stupid… He hit his hand against his forehead. “You think I gave Mr Holmes the black eye? What? I met him for the first time when I came to his table to greet him.”

Sherlock glowered at him. “He held your hand!” It had looked very strange from where he had been standing. Mycroft holding another man’s hand… Weird… Unpleasant…

“No, he just showed me how to get rid of the pain in my fingers, see!” He made some hectic movements with his hand. “It already helped! That’s it. And so you know I have a girlfriend.”

Sherlock had to admit he didn’t deduce this man as gay. He had not paid that much attention to it as he had been so sure to have found the right one. But it was very dark behind this building after all! “Fine.”

“Who are you anyway? A jealous lover, huh? Why don’t you just ask him where he got the black eye from?”

“He won’t tell me!” Sherlock blurted. “Says he fell or something.”

“Well, ever considered that he did?”

Sherlock shook his head, stubbornly. “I know he didn’t.” There had been an air of sadness around his brother, despite his usual arrogance. He had hardly shown up after Sherrinford. He obviously had other company now. And bad company as it seemed. And… “I’m not jealous,” he hissed.

“No? Surely seemed like it to me. Well, if you could kindly step aside so I can finally bin this?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned around to leave.

“Was nice meeting you, whoever you are!” the younger man shouted after him.

Sherlock snorted. A few months of John’s blog not having been updated and no more really prominent cases so no appearances in the news and people had already forgotten about him. Well, fine with him. He didn’t need any more boring cases and people putting their smartphones into his face to take ‘selfies’. To hell with them all. And… “Keep away from my br… Mr Holmes!”

“You can as well say ‘boyfriend’. Even an idiot can see you _are_ jealous. Good night.” The man disappeared in the building, managing to have the last word.

Sherlock stalked off, fuming. Jealous! He wasn’t jealous! He just needed to know who had _[sex with]_ hurt his brother. He was just concerned!


	2. Chapter 2

### Haircuts

Mycroft checked his schedule, sitting at the table with his frugal breakfast – two slices of toast with ginger jelly and tea. His first meeting would only take place at nine. Plenty of time. Of course he had other things to do and his reports would already be waiting for him, but he assumed he had enough time for a haircut. It was really about time.

He called his favourite barber and was delighted to hear that he would be welcome in half an hour. He finished his meal, put the dishes in the sink – his housekeeper would take care of them – and after checking his appearance in the full-size mirror in the corridor he left the house right when his driver stopped at the gate. Perfect timing indeed.

He didn’t look around before he entered the car. His driver was not just a driver. He was an agent, just like Anthea. He wouldn’t have parked the car if there had been any suspicious movements, so there weren’t. At least none that weren't keeping enough distance and behaving innocently enough to not being spotted.

Well, Sherlock had not done exactly that the past evening. Had he wanted Mycroft to catch him? Or had he been too upset to watch his disguise and the night had calmed him down? Or probably he just wasn’t there… It was very early. Sherlock hated to get up early. He was most certainly still lying in his cosy bed, snuggling into the blanket, his black hair like a dark halo on the pillow, his beautiful lips slightly parted so his pink tongue was visible…

Mycroft was close to hammering his head against the roof of the car. Would this never stop? These misguided, immoral feelings for his own baby brother… They had been plaguing him for decades now. And recently it had only become worse…

The first time they had become fully present after heroically silencing them as soon as they had shown up initially when Sherlock had been tender seventeen years old had been this crazy period when they had been planning Sherlock's 'death'. They had been working together on this, figuring out the possibilities and measures, the locations and the actions that needed to be taken. Frankly he would have preferred by far if Sherlock had not left at all. It had promised to be dangerous and possibly lethal for him. Sherlock could have just disappeared to a safe place and Mycroft's agents would have taken care of Moriarty's network. But very unsurprisingly, Sherlock had insisted on doing it himself, definitely firmly believing in the mantra_ 'If you want it to be done correctly, do it yourself'_. It wasn’t that Mycroft would have disagreed on this (in fact he usually full-heartedly supported this attitude) but he had simply hated the idea of Sherlock getting hurt, being alone – and being so far away from him for so long…

But as John's life had seemed to be at stake, his dear Mrs Hudson had been threatened, and even the formidable Greg Lestrade had not been safe, Sherlock, the white knight for all his friends, had had to go himself and kill the dragons. And he had. And in these months before he had 'died', he and Mycroft had been somewhat close again, albeit not nearly as close as they had been when Sherlock had been a boy, in those good old days after Eurus had been gone. Yes, and Victor… Boy Sherlock had become quiet and moody, but also cuddlier than ever, albeit only with him, Mycroft. He certainly didn’t remember this. Didn’t recall how he had used to sleep in Mycroft's bed as during his sleep he had been haunted by dreams of monsters and silly songs and loss. And Mycroft would always wake him and tell him stories about brave pirates and strong-minded men, and Sherlock would snuggle against him until he was able to return to sleep. And during the days he had at least spoken to him and asked him about basically everything in his serious, too-old voice, and Mycroft had felt an overwhelming – and at this point totally innocent – love for his smart little brother and he had known that Sherlock loved him, too.

This almost-idyll had ended with Mycroft having to go to boarding school. Sherlock had closed up completely afterwards. He had seemed to forget about any closeness between them. Had refused to even talk to Mycroft most of the times. He had felt betrayed by him, and it hadn't been fair, but Mycroft had reacted with as much understanding as he had been able to muster, always trying to reach out to Sherlock.

But things had never become good again. He had gone to Cambridge and then moved to London, and Sherlock had started to get completely out of control. And Mycroft had yelled at him and said things he had deeply regretted afterwards, things that had rooted in his fear of losing his teenage brother to the drugs or to a rusty knife between his ribs for insulting a bigger man with his loose tongue and haughty attitude.

Over those dark years, their sibling relationship had more or less ceased to exist, at least in Sherlock's eyes. Mycroft had tried to save him, sending him to rehab against his will after pulling him out of drug dens on a regular basis, but in the end Sherlock had saved himself by dropping the drugs for solving cases instead without ever trying to reconcile with his older brother, who had been troubled with feelings for him that he knew he shouldn’t have, and it hadn't made it easier one bit.

But the time before _The Fall _had been trustful and surprisingly pleasant and Sherlock had seemed to accept him and perhaps even like him – and then he had been gone for two years (and Mycroft had spent this time with worrying about him), and when he had come back, it had been all about Mary Morstan and again John Watson. Mycroft had been both pleased and shocked that Sherlock had called him during their wedding, and he had known if he really showed up there, he would behave in an embarrassing way and give away his true feelings, which had not decreased one bit in Sherlock's absence – perhaps they had even become stronger. So he had declined, probably missing the chance to make things better between them.

One horrible event after the other had followed, the climax being the mess in Sherrinford, and that had been the second time that he had felt something like true sentiment radiating from Sherlock. He had just accused Sherlock of never having cared about him but in this moment when he had been willing to die so Sherlock wouldn’t have to shoot his best friend, without a doubt throwing himself back into the darkness of getting high and depressed by it, there had been closeness. Only that in the same night he had called himself the stupidest fool on earth for even considering that Sherlock could have shot John when he had sent Greg Lestrade away, more or less telling him _'thanks but no thanks'_ when the certainly very decent DI with the soulful eyes had asked if he should keep him company like Sherlock had obviously told him to do, God knew why.

But his soul had felt like an open wound this night, and his love for Sherlock – and love it was, and not only the brotherly kind – had eaten away at him like acid. He had realised he still hoped Sherlock would one day return it.

And didn’t he still do that? Wasn't he watching out for him, hoping Sherlock really cared and what – was jealous of his alleged boyfriend? He had to be out of his mind… With heavy steps he padded over the pavement after dragging himself out of the car to get his hair cut before he would begin another stressful day at work.

And then, a few minutes later, he was sitting in the comfortable chair, the barber, a handsome and somewhat exotic young man named Antonio, hurrying away to bring him some coffee, and he looked into the mirror, and at the street corner he discovered a tall figure in a long Belstaff coat, and his heart started to beat faster.

*****

“Oh, Sherlock! You look lovely!”

Sherlock winced. This was all he had needed to hear to know his new haircut was a disaster… Mrs Hudson finding it ‘lovely’. He would have to wear the hat. Constantly… “Thanks,” he grumbled nonetheless.

“It’s so short!”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson, I know!” He looked like a sheep – after being shorn. Short. A black sheep. How fitting… He had always been the black sheep. Well, until he had miraculously turned into the grown-up in his parents eyes. What a joke… He had not seen them for weeks. They probably still went visiting Eurus, whatever they might gain from it.

Sherlock shook these thoughts off while stomping up the stairs to his flat. Didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had not come any closer at finding out who was his brother’s… whatever… Had he really thought he was dating his barber? No matter how handsome he was? What would they talk about? Hair products? And he had obviously not had his hair cut for four weeks and he would have hardly had to go there getting this done to see his… lover.

But Sherlock simply had no idea what Mycroft was looking for in a man. He wouldn’t have thought Mycroft still had any interest in any kind of sexual or romantic relationship. And he knew it was snobbish to think a barber wasn’t in Mycroft's league. What did he know about such things anyway?

He remembered the only time when he had met a man Mycroft was seeing. He had been… eighteen? Visiting London with their parents, short before going to uni. Mycroft had shown up for lunch in a restaurant, and accidentally (or not, he couldn’t say) the man he had an affair with had bumped into them. Mycroft had been embarrassed but he had introduced Lance to them and Sherlock had hated him at first sight. He had not been worth his brother’s time or effort or even being in the same room. He had been posh and rich, yes, good-looking, for sure. Well-mannered – certainly better than Sherlock himself – and quite nice. But still! He had been a goldfish! And Sherlock had almost thrown up when he had kissed his brother before leaving them alone again. On the lips! Mummy had been over the moon and Father had smiled happily, and Sherlock had felt like barfing or hitting this nobody.

Sherlock pushed away the inevitable conclusion – that he had been tremendously jealous and that he most certainly was now, too. This was something else! Lance hadn’t hurt his brother! On the other hand – how should he know. He had not seen Mycroft afterwards until he had come home for Christmas. Perhaps Mycroft’s relationships had always been abusive! It was very hard to believe but how well did he actually know his brother? On a really personal level? Not very good.

What he most certainly knew was that the cute little Antonio (who smelled decidedly pleasant, he had to admit that) had not given his brother the black eye. He had been chattering without a break and Sherlock had lured him into talking about his previous client, who had just left, hopefully without seeing him... Sherlock had even been sitting in the same chair. And Antonio had said that this man was so sophisticated, coming to him for years, and always gave a generous tip and was just pleasant to be around with, his voice full of admiration but not the romantic kind. No way that he was dating Mycroft or that Mycroft could endure such a chatterbox in his life if he had a nice arse or not… He had talked Sherlock almost into oblivion and so he had not even realised how short his hair was being cut...

Damn… He needed to know who he was! This mysterious man who had _[stolen]_ won his brother’s heart and was now treating him badly! Of course, the best way to find out would have been to get hold of Mycroft's phone and scam his messages and possibly pictures. But it was impossible. Mycroft never let go of his phone. And if he had to for some reason, he gave it to Anthea the watchdog, and asking Anthea to give it to him or, if she knew it, make her talk about Mycroft's paramour, was completely futile. She would just raise her eyebrows at him, politely encourage him to fuck off and tell Mycroft about it.

Sedate Mycroft in his office? Not a possibility. Mycroft would catch him and all hell would break loose. He couldn’t pull off that stunt a second time anyway and probably Mycroft would never drink anything again that he might have touched… And he was feeling ashamed enough about this… Drugging the punch, stealing the laptop… Another thing he didn’t want to think about now… He was rapidly running out of convenient thoughts these days...

Impatiently shrugging off his coat, he stalked into the living room and let himself fall into his armchair. He would have to go on following Mycroft when he was not in his office, risking being caught (and he was quite sure Mycroft had seen him in front of the restaurant; he had become a bit rusty at observing people...). But then he suddenly straightened his back. Damn. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of this right away!

*****

“Sir...”

Mycroft, having just entered his PA’s office after escaping a meeting with the PM, gave Anthea a friendly smile. She was so much more pleasant to be around than this worst moron Downing Street had ever have the misfortune to harbour. “Yes?”

“Someone broke into your house...”

“Oh, indeed?” He could hardly suppress a smirk.

Anthea grinned. “You don’t seem very surprised – or upset.”

“Does he have a mop of black curls by any chance?” Of course he had deduced at once that she wasn’t talking about a real threat. And he had seen this coming for sure.

Anthea giggled now. “No, in fact he does not. They have all come off.”

Oh, this had to be upsetting little brother, proud of his full head of hair as he was. Mycroft, smirking, could imagine the situation very well. Sherlock, interrogating Antonio, who hardly needed an incentive to talk non-stop, trying to figure out if he was the one Mycroft was having an abusive relationship with and paying no attention to the damage that was done to his precious silky curls _[that he would love to card his fingers through]_. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t look very happy. Rummages through the items in the drawers of your home office desk now.”

The silent alarm that had been activated when Sherlock had entered without knowing that even though Mycroft had not changed the alarm code after the break-in of his dear friends before their adventure in Sherrinford there was an additional step to be performed now. All the hidden cameras in Mycroft's house had come to life when Sherlock had come in without doing this. Mycroft thought that it would probably be rather entertaining to watch.

But Sherlock wouldn’t of course find anything as there was nothing to be found. Apart from… Mycroft tensed a bit but then he dismissed the thought. Even if Sherlock saw them, he wouldn’t think anything by it. It wasn’t what he was looking for. But he still wondered which conclusions Sherlock would draw. And what was really motivating him to get so absorbed in this case that wasn’t one. It was touching. It was frightening. And it was fuelling an insane hope Mycroft didn’t like to even consider.

_All hearts are broken…_

If he allowed himself to hope, it would be _his _heart this time.

He knew it and he still couldn’t let go of it.

### From Tailors And Classmates

“Good morning, my boy. Why so pensive?” Mrs Hudson put the tray with his breakfast onto the kitchen table.

Sherlock looked up from staring at his phone without seeing anything. “Ah, I don’t know. Thank you.” Gratefully, he accepted the mug with steaming tea from his landlady’s hands.

“A puzzle to solve?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes. Difficult one. It’s my brother.” He felt like talking about it to her. He had been up very early and watched his brother leaving the house as always, alone as always. Sherlock had followed him in a cab but he had gone straight to the office this morning so he had gone back home for now.

She sat down opposite of him. “Oh. Does he have problems?”

“He has a black eye. Refuses to tell me who did that to him.”

“Oh… Well, we all have our secrets...”

Sherlock smiled. “I know. You and your wild past.”

The old lady giggled and grabbed his hand, getting serious again. “He is allowed to have a life beside you. He worries so much about you.”

“You hate him. John told me you called him a reptile...” They had laughed about that but Sherlock had not quite been able to ignore the small voice that was telling him this was nasty. And not even true.

“I was upset. We all were a bit crazy at this time...”

She could say that again… “True. So you think I should keep out of his business?”

“What is it that makes you want to solve this puzzle? The thrill of the chase? The curiosity to find out what kind of man your brother likes? This wouldn’t be that nice, would it? To protect him from someone who is not good for him? Do you really care? Because if you do and you want to help him, you should go on doing this by any means.”

Sherlock swallowed. It was a bit of all, wasn’t it? But mostly it was caring about Mycroft. He couldn’t watch his brother being abused. Especially not after Mycroft had been so pissed off about John hurting _him_… He was glad though that Mrs Hudson had not mentioned the other reason. That he was mind-burningly jealous... “I broke into his house yesterday,” he admitted and sipped at his tea.

“What? Oh, Sherlock…” She gave him an admonishing look. “And what did you find? Love letters? Pictures of his secret man?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock thought back at his one-hour-search through Mycroft's belongings. In this old-fashioned but somehow warm house with the odd paintings at the wall. He had foregone searching his brother’s wardrobes but he had looked into the drawers of his nightstand. Nothing. Not even lubricant or condoms… Just a tube of hand lotion that might serve the purpose of pleasing himself, and he had blushed furiously at this thought.

But no sign of another person in Mycroft's life. The only photographs he had discovered were… photographs of him. As a boy, a teenager but mostly pictures of the past twenty years, one had seemed to be only weeks old. Always him, in all states of annoyance, sulking, sometimes even smiling, all taken from some distance. They had been, well, not hidden, but not in the open either. It shouldn’t have surprised him. He knew he was important to his brother. He was still under surveillance for his own good. But he didn’t have a single picture of Mycroft in his flat. And suddenly he decided he needed to have some. Without the black eye though… “There were about fifteen photographs, all showing… me.”

Mrs Hudson looked at him for a long moment. “I see,” she said then. “You know, whatever it is that drives you to spying on your brother… just go on until you’ve got your answers.”

“Even if he finds out and spanks me?” What a stupid thought… Mycroft had never raised his hand against him and Sherlock was sure he never would. Which couldn’t be said about him, could it? He could see himself twisting Mycroft's arm, pushing him against the wall, as if he had been standing beside himself. It wasn’t a nice image.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew it already. He is smart, your big brother.” Mrs Hudson got up and patted his arm, proceeding to leave him to his breakfast to do what old ladies did all day. Chores and chatter, he supposed.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, assuming that he hadn’t done a very good job at hiding his observation efforts. “He’s the smart one.”

And Mycroft was the one he had been thinking about over the past days. Constantly… Obsessively...

Sherlock grabbed a dry slice of toast and put it into his mouth. In one piece.

*****

“Mr Wimmer said he has time for you today whenever you are ready,” Anthea announced when Mycroft returned to his office after yet another exhausting meeting. She hardly accompanied him to them, able to make better use of her time at her desk.

“Fine. Thank you. I will take my lunch break now and go there; if anything is the matter, just give me a call.”

Anthea eyed him curiously. Mycroft and having lunch breaks – almost an incompatible image. But she knew he wanted to see his tailor after all, and he would buy something for lunch then instead of sending her to get him a sandwich or a salad, and eat it outside. It was a rather warm day after all and it hadn’t rained since the morning. A perfect time to be outside as there would be no meeting to attend until the afternoon.

“Of course, sir. There has been nothing urgent so far.”

So Mycroft left the Cabinet Office to talk to his tailor about a new suit, light-blue, he liked to think. Afterwards, he would perhaps walk around a bit. He should do that more often actually. It would be good for his health and his mood to get out of his office for a while during the day, actually being in the sunlight and get some moderate exercise.

And of course he hoped Sherlock would follow him… Perhaps even join him. Even though he had no idea what would happen if he confronted his brother. He could hardly ask him if he harboured any un-brotherly feelings for him. And of course Sherlock didn’t; after all that had happened between them over the past decades, only a fool could even consider that.

But he had always assumed that love could turn even the smartest man into a fool.

*****

“That’s indeed a nice colour, Mr Holmes. Will stress your attractive eyes.” Mr Wimmer, the fifty-two year-old tailor with German roots, smiled at Mycroft appreciatively, tapping at the sample he had shown him to pick the fabric and colour.

Mycroft blushed a bit. Especially considering what he had to ask the man to do… Claus Wimmer was a quite a few years older than him but he was undeniably attractive, being tall and with a head of full blond hair, only slightly greying at the temples. And he was gay… “Thank you.”

“Ah, just telling the truth. Should be finished until the fifteenth. I have your measurements and…”

“As a matter of fact – I think the last one was a bit too short in the legs,” Mycroft lied. “Perhaps you could measure them again?”

Mr Wimmer paled. “Really? I thought it was perfect.” He seemed to be devastated about this affront at his professionalism.

“It's hardly visible,” Mycroft hurried to assure him. “But just to make sure…”

“Of course. I’ll be right back with the tape.”

Mycroft nodded, feeling a bit guilty of accusing the man of having worked insufficiently. In fact the suit was fitting perfectly. But he didn’t have to turn around to the shop window to know Sherlock was out there. How stubborn he was… Like a terrier. And Mycroft knew for a matter of fact that Sherlock had turned a case down that Lestrade had offered him even though it had even sounded pretty interesting when Mycroft had glanced the police report before his meeting. Sherlock had not gone there and had instead been waiting outside Whitehall for him to go out even though he hardly ever left the building during the day apart from going to the Diogenes for meetings. The picture of his little brother lurking next to the centre of power just for the slight possibility that Mycroft would break his routine and go out to meet his supposed lover was as heart-warming as it was heart-breaking. And Mycroft was about to misguide him again…

“So, now we will see.” With deft hands the tailor held the measuring tape to his ankle and rolled it up to his waist. “Hm… Outside looks the same. Now the inside.”

Mycroft shuddered when a hand inevitably touched his crotch. And he could almost feel Sherlock's heart rate speeding up. It took Herculean effort to not look out of the window to try and see his face.

“You are right, Mr Holmes,” the tailor told him to his surprise after getting up. “Half a centimetre. Wonder how this could happen…” he grumbled to himself.

Mycroft thought if he was about to buy an expensive but ill-fitting suit now, nobody else than he was to blame… And this all to reach what – make Sherlock jealous so he would realise he wanted him? Perhaps insanity did run in the family… And still… Hope had raised its head and wouldn’t go away.

*****

Slowly Mycroft walked away from the tailor shop. His neck was prickling. When a car stopped a few metres away from him, making a rather awful noise, he took the opportunity to turn around – and saw a tall, slim figure hurrying back around the corner.

Mycroft turned back forward, a smile pulling at his lips. Little brother, the great detective. He assumed that Sherlock was usually better at observing people so his clumsiness during this ‘case’ was obviously caused by his confusion and worry. And jealousy? Really? Could he dare hope?

“Mycroft Holmes! Dammit! Such a bloody long time!”

Mycroft had not even noticed he had almost run into a broad-shouldered man with stylishly tousled hair and big green eyes behind expensive glasses. “Kerry Jones. Indeed a long time.”

“Ah, should I feel flattered that you remember me?” The man grinned widely at him. “Nah, I know – it’s just your fantastic memory we all envied you for. How have you been doing?” He patted Mycroft’s arm as if they were old friends, which they were most definitely not – they had just visited Cambridge at the same time and Kerry had been one of the brighter and kinder classmates who had always tried to include Mycroft in those ghastly activities he had always refused to partake in.

And now he was about to offer him his hand, but Mycroft stepped forward and grabbed his shoulders, nearly embracing the man. “Of course I remember you.” He also remembered that Kerry was straight as a line so there was no danger he would try to get in his pants for real.

But he was definitely pleased to see him and happy about the certainly very unexpected body contact. He chuckled, his eyes sparkling. “Hey, I don’t have to be anywhere for an hour. Shall we grab lunch together?”

Mycroft nodded. “I was on the way to St. James Park.” He had planned to buy a sandwich on the way.

“Excellent! I’ll keep you company if you can bear me?”

Mycroft wasn’t quite sure about that as he had been looking forward to some quiet time (and yes, to Sherlock following him…) and was not very keen on anybody’s company in general (except Sherlock's) but of course he agreed. Everything for the higher purpose. But this time this purpose wasn’t Queen and Country. It was Sherlock's heart.

*****

Sherlock was standing on the pavement, shock-frozen. He had been about to go into the tailor shop and confront this man who had just fumbled at his brother’s crotch, deeply disturbed. Of course, in his rational mind he did know that this was what tailors did – measuring their clients. But Mycroft had clearly known the man so why would he need Mycroft's measurements again? Perhaps this was some ghastly roleplay? Did his brother like to be… measured? Flashes of bare male flesh flickered through his mind – a long cock, fuzzy balls, a smooth behind, caressed by big hands...

Cursing, he had stepped back when Mycroft had turned around after leaving the shop. And then, to his horror, another man had just come, and Mycroft had embraced him, or at least almost embraced him! What was going on here? Did Mycroft date all these men? Was he a... a nymphomaniac? Had anyone of them hit him for cheating on him? But if there was only one man, this last one was the most likely candidate. A posh guy, almost as tall as his brother, the same age… And he had no idea who he was and how to find him to make sure he was the one _[he had to punish and yell at and who should better get the hell out of his brother’s life]_.

He stared at their backs now, and only realised he should move when they turned around the corner. He hurried to keep up – and ran into a little old woman with two heavy shopping bags. One of them crashed to the ground, and all its contents rolled over the pavement like in a bad film. The woman screamed at him, even poking at him with her walking stick, demanding to pick up the last package of sugar and each and every apple, and with burning cheeks, Sherlock hurried to get everything back into the thankfully still intact bag. When he was finished, his brother and this awful man were gone, and Sherlock could have screamed.

He knew there was only one way to find out who this man was and if he was really Mycroft's lover. He had to break into his brother’s house again, tonight – to get to his phone so Mycroft had to be home.

There was no way he could let this rest. No way to say, sod it, let him be with whom he wants. Because of the black eye, of course!

And because…

Sherlock didn't think this thought through. He turned on his heel and almost ran home to Baker Street to do an experiment, no matter what, so he would be able to not think of his brother and the unspeakable things he might do with other men for at least five minutes as he feared that he was about to lose his mind.

*****

“Oh, are you going out?”

Sherlock almost shrieked. He cleared his throat, trying to calm down his hammering heart. “Yes, Mrs Hudson. Got things to do.” He turned to see her standing in her door frame, the fragile old lady who had seen so much in her life.

And she nodded. “Do what you think you have to do, Sherlock. But be careful. I know you’ve come a long way since you’ve moved in here but let an old woman tell you that there is nothing more precious than a human heart. Try not to break any.”

Sherlock, dressed completely in black, stared at her, his thoughts whirling. Afraid to ask what she was on about, he nodded. “Not my intention, Mrs Hudson.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Sherlock gave her a shy smile, and then he stepped out of the house.

Mrs Hudson sighed and returned into her flat. If things went wrong, there would be a ton of ginger nuts needed tomorrow. If they didn’t, well, then there would be a very happy detective, and a man she had rather viciously pegged as a reptile would call himself the luckiest man in the world. Both of them were not that good with emotions though so she crossed her fingers and hoped for the best but feared the worst.

Should she have prepared Sherlock, making him realise what was going on with him? Because he surely did not fully understand. But it hadn’t felt right, and in all her long life, she had learned to listen to her instincts. She just hoped the two difficult Holmes men would do the same tonight.

### Trap And Truths

How peacefully Mycroft was sleeping… Sherlock couldn’t see a lot of his brother's face as of course he couldn’t make light. But after entering the house, he had waited a couple of minutes to make sure the opening of the door had not woken Mycroft up before sneaking upstairs, sure his brother would keep his phone in reach even during the night. Wars could break out, Prime Ministers could be killed – or little brother could be in trouble…

In any way his eyes were adjusted to the darkness now and he could see enough of Mycroft in the pale moonlight that was creeping through the gap between the heavy curtains to admire his relaxed features. Handsome. Mycroft was very handsome. No wonder someone had done his best to win his heart – only to nastily hurt him.

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned away from his brother to grab the phone, which was lying on the nightstand. Of course he expected it to be secured and he knew it wouldn’t be easy to break the code, especially as his time was limited.

But when he wiped over the display, he froze. The phone was on, and the background picture was one of Mycroft, looking sternly at him.

“Looking for anything special?”

Sherlock yelped and threw the phone into the air, and it was snatched nonchalantly by a long-fingered hand when it flew across the bed behind him. Sherlock stared at his brother and then blinked against the light he had switched on. “Um, oh God, Mycroft. I, um, because of the case, I mean…”

“You're talking about the case of the black eye?” Mycroft was watching him, scrutinising him in fact.

“Goddammit, tell me who it was!” Sherlock screeched. “It drives me mental! How could you allow anyone to hurt you!” And a memory flashed in his mind again – the memory of himself, high for the sake of the Magnussen case, attacking his brother. Confused, he saw Mycroft's face fall. Had he deduced his thoughts? But Mycroft had never confronted him with this – as if he had understood how sorry Sherlock was.

“Oh, Sherlock. Go home. Nobody hit me. I slipped on the stairs and hit my face against the banister. There is no puzzle to be solved.” His voice sounded flat and resigned.

And this time Sherlock knew he was telling the truth. All this time he had been torturing himself because of a wrong deduction! He should be relieved. And he was. But… “These men! You talked to so many men! The one today, the one you left with, whom you touched! – are you dating him?” What the hell was blubbering out of his mouth now? He should really go home… and get seriously pissed.

But Mycroft's eyes went softer. “What if I did?” His voice was gentle and there was an undertone Sherlock had never heard from him.

“I don't like it!” the detective snarled, again without thinking. He blushed a deep shade of red. “I mean, you can do what you want of course…” he added quietly, his shoulders sagging.

“But you don't like it…”

“No.”

“Because…?” Mycroft put the blanket aside and slipped from the bed now, standing up.

Even in his posh, silky pyjamas (red with blue stripes) he managed to look dignified. The black eye was already fading, looking more light-green and yellow now, Sherlock realised. In a few days it would be gone for good. But this annoying something in Sherlock's heart would not go. “Because… He's not good enough for you.”

“And why is that so?”

“Because he's not…” Sherlock broke off, biting his lip.

“Not, what, little brother? Not you?”

“Yes! Oh God…” Sherlock's knees had suddenly got weak. He was in love with his big brother. He was jealous as hell of anyone who even came close to him. Mycroft had to think he had gone insane. He would lock him away next to Eurus…

But Mycroft put his hand on his shoulder, very softly. “Sit down, little brother. We need to talk.”

He didn’t sound appalled, Sherlock realised. He sounded… tender. Affectionate. Sherlock suddenly remembered all the pictures of himself that he had found in this house. What a fool he had been. Blind in his jealousy and determination to find who had succeeded in taking Mycroft away. Nobody had. And nobody would. Mycroft belonged to him. The thought should have scared and terrified him but he knew it was the truth, and for once it was indeed pure and simple. And he would be damned if Mrs Hudson hadn’t realised it before him...

When they had both sat down on the edge of the bed, they didn’t talk. After looking into each other’s eyes for a long moment – and the expression in Mycroft's beautiful (not so) icy blues making Sherlock tingle and tremble – they kissed.

*****

For so long Mycroft had been dreaming of doing this – letting his tongue slip between those wonderful lips, caressing Sherlock’s mouth, his hand buried in his hair… Well, of course there wasn’t a lot of it left now but the curls would grow again. And Sherlock looked gorgeous, curls or not.

He knew that Sherlock had only just now realised what he was feeling for his big brother. He should let him think about it first. He should give him the opportunity to back away.

But he could feel that Sherlock wouldn’t want this. Baby brother’s hands were all over him, his tongue invading Mycroft's mouth with much more vigour than Mycroft was showing. The kisses turned from rather clumsy to breath-taking within mere moments – Sherlock had always been a fast learner, and someone who loved to throw himself into every new experience with all he had.

Little brother had left his coat downstairs but there was a shirt to be taken off, trousers to be stepped out after getting rid of shoes and socks, and pants to be thrown through the room before Sherlock was gloriously naked.

It was hard not to stare – not only at his generously proportioned and decidedly tasty genitals and the general overload of pale seductiveness but all the scars his life as a detective had left, the worst ones being caused by the Watsons in some way or another. But Mycroft didn't say anything about it. He let his fingers stroke all the smooth and the damaged skin, showering his brother with the tenderness he had never thought would be welcome. Sherlock indulged him for several minutes before he made sure he was ready for more.

When Mycroft had been rather impatiently stripped off his own clothing, they ended up in a pile on his large bed, a pile of groping fingers, busy lips, entwined legs, silky respectively hairy skin, their efforts accompanied by little gasps of pleasure, the slight creaking of the bed and the noises of increasingly passionate kissing.

They should take it slow – little brother was a virgin after all. But there was no doubt that Sherlock wanted this, wanted the physical reassurance that Mycroft was truly his, that there was nobody to be jealous of and to be chased out of his life. Sherlock needed him to prove his love and desire to him, and Mycroft had longed for it for so long without ever actually allowing himself to long, let alone to hope, and now that he could have it all, well, he took it all, much to Sherlock's pleasure.

Sherlock was wiggling and grunting, tearing at his hair and digging his fingernails into Mycroft's neck when Mycroft was first sucking him before licking him open, fingering him ready for taking him with the help of his useful hand lotion, and in the end Sherlock was basically begging him to take him, to hammer his love home. Mycroft started with shallow thrusts, his eyes on little brother all the time to be sure his movements were not too much, but soon enough it became clear they were not enough so he increased the speed and the depth of penetration, Sherlock's legs slung around his waist, urging him on, and it had never been supposed to take long until they reached their peaks of pleasure in quick succession, Mycroft spilling deep inside his brother’s body, making him his own, and Sherlock releasing himself over his stomach with deep moans that echoed right through Mycroft's soul.

He had made his baby brother feel like this. He had been allowed to give him his love, and it had been gratefully accepted – and returned, and it was the single most astonishing thing that had happened to him.

When Sherlock’s shorn head was resting on his still rapidly moving chest, Mycroft holding him in a tight embrace, he couldn’t help but whispering though, “This was not the first and the last time, was it, little brother?”

Sherlock pecked his chest. “The first of two million times. I’ll count.”

Mycroft smiled, his heart glowing in joy and gratitude. “Good.”

“And Mycroft?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“If anyone tries to take you away from me, he’ll be whining about more than a black eye.”

And Mycroft chuckled and pinched Sherlock's cheek, musing about the fate that had made him slip and hurt himself just to end up where he had always wanted to be – under/over/in his beautiful baby brother, the owner of his heart for as long as he could remember.

💖 The End 💖


End file.
